A Pain In My Sawdust
by TheMusicalPoet
Summary: Post Living Doll. After the miniature killer is revealed, Grissom and the team work fast together to save Sara. The team reacts to Grissom's confession. Set after the TBC. Because we all need this. GSR SPOILERS. ...Alive is all I can ask... R&R please.
1. Chapter 1

_These characters are not mine. They belong to CBS and the show creators of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. I am only borrowing them for the purpose of my own perverse indulgement (and yours, perhaps!). Tell me what you think!_

* * *

Gil Grissom's heart had been stopped, he was sure, for the last ten minutes of his life. His mouth had been hanging open slightly as he stared at the girl, mumbling to him the same haunting song her father had sung for them only hours before. A tightness in the back of his throat reminded him every so often to force an agonizing breath into his body. The interrogation room seemed to be spinning. He stared at her hard, his fist clenching fast around nothing. It was all he had left. Nothing. 

She didn't seem to notice him. He had to leave. He had done enough damage by yelling. It would only give harm to his cause if he was to stay and... He didn't know what he would do. He stood up and swung around to the door, heaving it open and stopping in the threshold. He had to think about what he knew.

Brass rounded the corner, making a quiet guttural sound as he pushed past Grissom and went into the room. He was sure to close the door behind him because, as much as he hated it, it was his job to remain objective now. In any case, he had very nearly grabbed a bottle of bleach on his way in.

With his back against the wall, Grissom stared fixedly down the corridor in front of him. He did not see the entourage of his team circling in on him, their eyes filling with concern and eagerness to resolve this intoxicatingly personal case. It was a feeling that was becoming alarmingly familiar to each of them.

"Did she spill?" Catherine asked, cocking her head to the side to get a better view of Grissom's expression. Grissom chewed his bottom lip and half shook his head.

They cast their eyes down. Nick started, "There has to be an answer. Somewhere. Somewhere here. In the--"

He stopped. Grissom had walked away and was on a straight line path to his office. Following tentatively, they stopped when they heard his door slam.

Catherine took charge. "I don't want to see a shut eye on any of us until we find out where Sara is. Review everything that we have. Do what you need to do right now and let's get back to business."

They all went in different directions.


	2. Chapter 2

Exhausted. Helpless. Confused. Lost. Stranded. Numb. Scared. These were all the things Sara Sidle was at this, this dark hour. Hardly able to function due to the mind-crippling pain that shot up through her back and legs, she scrounged for air, lying underneath a car in the middle of what she guessed was the desert. Clumps of wet sand and grit stuck between her fingers and under her nails and she feebly clawed at the ground. No hope of becoming unpinned. Life seeping from her body.

_Oh, my little one  
Sleep doth come to whisk you away  
__And ever shall you go with a lightened heart  
__I will see you there and say  
__In my arms, if you will, stay, until we part  
__Another day._

She could only think of Grissom. Words he'd spoken to her, whispered to her over warm bedsheets and peaceful sighs. Such a quiet, peaceful, secret happiness they'd shared, unbeknownst to anyone. She had waited her entire life for such an envious tranquility. How romantic it was. Strange and seductive. Subtly powerful and consuming. Comfortable.

How is it that she was where she was? She remembered only a girl, unfamiliar to her. She had a remote suspicion of recognition. Who was she? It didn't matter. Where was she? Her mind presented no answers. In instinctive defense of her body, she resolved that there was no sense in wasting her energy on indeterminate questions. She tried to focus on breathing.

Idle minds suffer long. She was cold. The pain was unbearable. Was she dying?

So cold.

Water was siphoning into the recess where she lay, pinned. The flooding pushed filth and mud onto her face and lips, and into her hair. Her eyes stung with grit and tears.

As the shock wore off, she began to understand her fate. Regardless of how she'd gotten there, she was stuck. Probably no one knew where she was. She felt a heat that was either pooling blood or her imagination. She might never be found. She might never see her apartment again. She might never be at CSI again. She might never say goodbye to her friends... She might never see Grissom again; a love she had waited so long to have reconciled.

It was too real.

A recent interest in the writings of William Shakespeare sparked a memory of a sad and desperate quotation she had once read. _Absence from those we love is self from self -- a deadly banishment. _She felt so intolerably alone.

Her head was hurting. The weight pressing down on her was unbearable.

She tried to speak, if only to hear a voice; her voice; any voice. She gurgled a bit. A small, muffled "Help" was all she could sputter. She closed her eyes to protect them from the rain. She shivered.

_I will see you there._


	3. Chapter 3

Nick Stokes had already paced back and forth by Grissom's door three times. Each time, he turned his head to peer through the blinds, but he wasn't sure why. He wanted answers. He wanted to know if he was OK. He wanted a clue. He didn't like any of it. He was brimming with anxiety. This was Grissom. Grissom was losing his cool. Or at least Nick figured he was. How could he not be? He stopped, squinting in through the office window. Finally, the blinds shut and the door opened a crack. Grissom's head peered through the opening.

"Nick," he said. "Stop pacing." Plain and simple, and then he closed the door.

Nick stepped back a moment, clouds swooning over his darkened eyes. He searched for any emotion in Grissom's voice and found nothing. He sighed. Some people never changed.

A noise from down the hall made his head turn. The slam of a fist hitting metal. He knew it well working in the crime lab for almost tens years, plus he had punched his own set of locker doors and bathroom stalls back in high school and college. It was a noise that resonated with a secret ferocity he harnessed in himself that he had managed to keep fairly controlled since then. Still, the sound welled up in him a slough of emotions, heightened by this most tense situation.

He started walking towards the locker room. "Warrick, man, is that you?" he shouted before rounding the corner, his Texan accent towing the words. He stood in the doorway and saw Greg sitting on the bench facing away from him. He was hunched over, holding his hand. Nick's face turned very concerned.

"Greg." No response. Nick frowned. He stepped forward and leaned on the closest locker. "You OK, man?"

Greg spoke bitterly. "Have you noticed that it's always us lately?" Nick's eyebrows twitched up. "I mean, we come in, we do our job, we tie up loose ends, and the only thanks we get are the thanks we give ourselves." Nick nodded. Greg didn't look up. "And then they come after us. We get stalked, bumped, beaten, tossed into boxes and left to die."

Nick cringed. _No air. Bugs. Everywhere. Where the hell am I? Jesus, I'm gonna die._

Greg looked up. "What happened to the good guys?"

Nick sat down, shaking his head free of the rancid memory. He sighed. "Unfortunately, we deal with mostly the bad guys. Bad guys who think they're good guys. And that's where it gets bad." Silence.

Then, "Don't you hate Hodges?"

Nick almost smiled. "Almost." He pauses. "Why?"

"He says I've betrayed him and the others here by abandoning them at their microscopes. Says we could have caught the miniature killer sooner if we had spent more time reviewing case files, running tests."

"Now you don't believe that, do you?"

Greg made an uncertain sound. "I think I could have saved us all a little trouble." He looked away, lost in thought. It didn't take a genius to know what about.

_Troubled eyes stared at him through the darkness. They circled in on him, hissing and chanting. Raising their arms, the lunged at him, knocking him down, the force of the blow sending stars_ _darting across his eyes._ _Pain everywhere, and then nothing_.

Nick put a hand on Greg's shoulder. "You're a CSI in every respect, Greg. A good one. Don't let that scumbag get you down." He was completely serious.

Greg half smiled. "OK." He rubbed his hand, now purple with bruising. "How are you holding up?"

"I," Nick started, "don't know. I guess I feel helpless. We have to find an answer, but how? Grissom has the miniature and we know the case files inside and out. We could--"

"Did you hear what Grissom said a while ago?" Nick nodded. "Did you know?"

"About?"

"Well, him and Sara." Greg looked away again.

"I don't know, man. I guess... I thought he cared about everyone that way. Maybe."

"I sort of knew it was different."

"Are you OK with that?"

"I think so. I just... Never thought of Grissom, you know?"

Nick laughed once. "Yeah."

"I mean, it's Grissom."

"Yeah."

They stood up. "So, what now?" Greg asked.

"What if we went back to her apartment. She's bound to have something there that would lead us to Sara's location."

"Plans for the miniature?"

"Who knows?"

"Let's go." Nick was already out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Grissom sat at his desk, staring blankly at the elaborate miniature of what he could only assume was Sara's current state, the doll's hand groping at the sawdust sand. His mind raced a mile a minute without any direction. A small part of his brain was screaming at him with utter anger _Solve the puzzle! Solve the goddamned puzzle! It's like all the others. Solve the puzzle, Gil! Solve the goddamned puzzle! _But mostly he sat in agony, his despair carving an endless hole into his chest. His breathing was strained, his brow furrowed in shock, his shoulders heaving with each staggered intake of air.

He stood up, still glaring at the model. His head was now pounding with the onslaught of his migraine. His eyes darted back and forth as his imagination held him in a terrifying chokehold. Horrible images flayed his consciousness, peeling back his rational judgement and sending his mind into a debt of panic. He gripped the edge of his desk, his eyes closed. To an outsider, he'd have seemed composed. On the inside, it was the worst of torture.

_A flash of lightning  
__A muddy hand  
__Her voice muffled  
__Murmuring 'Grissom'  
__Another flash of lightning  
__Green light  
__Nick, in a box underground  
__Cracking glass  
__A windshield and blood  
__Her blood in the dirt  
_'_Grissom'  
__A flash again  
__Brutal beatings  
__More blood  
__Natalie's blank expression  
__The clawing hand in the mud  
__The overturned car  
_'_Grissom'  
__Natalie's face, no emotion  
_'_Grissom'  
__Sara's face, crying  
_'_Grissom'  
__Sara's eyes  
'Grissom!'_

He was jarred out of his thoughts. Archie stood at his open door, closing it before walking into the centre of his office. He stood there with uncertainty.

"Grissom. You needed to see me?"

Grissom seemed lost, but only for a moment. He sat down, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Archie, aware of the situation, looked troubled but resolved to remain objective. He dismissed Grissom's momentary look of anguish.

"Yes, I called you," Grissom affirmed. "Come look at this."

Grissom turned the miniature towards Archie. Archie's eyes widened only slightly and then said, "I think you have a point. This is a pretty unique formation." He gestured towards the rocks surrounded the tiny car wreck.

"Knowing Natalie's precision, it's likely that these are accurate and to scale."

"Mhm," Archie responded. Grissom looked at him with an earnest expression. He continued, "I know who we could talk to about something like this." Grissom nodded, sucking in a sharp breath of air. "I've used him before to help us track other kidnapping cases, especially with the use of explosives. He can track changes in the ground and land formations up to four hours outside of Vegas."

"Please," Grissom said, unaware of whether or not he was cutting Archie off. "Get him down here. Now. Fast."

"Right away," Archie replied, and he left the office.


	5. Chapter 5

All is quiet in Warrick Brown's workspace at CSI headquarters. All of the miniature killer's case files lie skewed about the examination table. He had gathered all the information that he could from the rest of CSI, including all of Natalie's personal effects and files from her employment as a janitor. He reviewed the results of her interrogation, both with Grissom and with Brass. He felt it maybe the least productive of work he could be doing, but the bases were covered. Everything that could be done was being done, and, he figured, perhaps he could find something, anything to help lead them to Sara.

He needed to keep busy. He needed to stay objective. But God, this was so close to home. Again.

Catherine rushed into the room carrying two coffees, her strawberry locks tousled, likely from having running her hands through it over and over out of frustration. She seemed especially frazzled. So caught off guard. She still, however, seemed to be maintaining a respectable level of composure.

Warrick sat up from his work. Outside, workers rushed by, hastled by the news about Sara, working as diligently as ever, if not to help the case then to distract themselves from it.

"I brought one for you," she said, placing the drinks on the counter behind their work area to avoid damaging evidence. "Find anything?."

Warrick looked up, revealing nothing but his hopeless expression. Catherine looked desperate, and perhaps unimpressed; at least to Warrick. "I know," Warrick said. "Back to work. But I just don't know what we can contribute. Nick and Greg are gone to the apartment. Lord knows what Grissom is doing. We know this stuff, Cath. We gotta--"

"I need," Catherine started, pausing momentarily, knowing she'd interrupted him. She sat down on the office chair and wheeled over to where he was sitting at the table. She lowered her voice. "I need to talk. I need... something. I can't take this, you know? This can't happen. Not again."

Warrick seemed taken aback, but extended his arm a bit to her, wrapping it around her back and resting his hand on her shoulder. She leaned forward, holding her face in her palms, once again running her fingers through her hair.

She started. "We couldn't have known. I know. We're doing our best. I know. But I'm so damn angry. I'm angry that this happens. I'm angry that we've lost Sara--"

"Hey!" Warrick started, staring hard at Catherine. "We don't know that."

She looked apologetic and then continued. "I'm angry that Grissom... I'm angry at Grissom. He won't let us come near him. It's like he's off on his own planet. We're here, at the ready, and he's locked himself up in his office, at a time when he needs us the most. I mean, he never... He never told us before! He never opened up! He just expected us to go on like this and never say anything?! And why now?"

"Are you... jealous?" Warrick asked honestly.

"No," she said, anxiety in her voice. "Just, disappointed. I thought he trusted us. I thought he could tell us anything, that he could tell me anything." Warrick seemed unconvinced. "I'd have been happy for them, really. I mean, I don't approve of the whole office romance thing. Really, though, you'd think he'd have said something! Or that she'd have said something! We can't even begin to underst--"

"You're ranting," Warrick said quietly.

"I just want to know why he needed to feel so, oh, I don't know, segregated from us."

"You know as well as I do that he's a private man. No one really gets Grissom."

"And Sara?"

"A mystery."

"It's perfect."

"Mhm."

Catherine seemed more at ease, but tension still pervaded her aura. "I think he's being foolish. To put his emotions above the effectiveness of his work. It's..."

"I know. But he must be doing something about this. He's a smart guy. He must have a plan."

"And what about us?" Catherine seemed irked by Warrick's acceptance of their boss's behaviour. It was foolishness.

"He'll call for us when he's ready."

Catherine paused to reflect and tears filled her eyes. "It's been a trying year. I can't bear to lose one of our own. Not like this. How am I supposed to run a team when my heart is at the crime scene?" She fought to compose herself, but the saltwater spilled down her cheeks. "We need to get her back."

Warrick leaned back, grabbing a tissue from a box in one of the drawers behind them. He handed it to Catherine who dabbed at her face. "We're doing our best," he said.

"Uh huh," Catherine muttered between sobs.

Warrick placed a comforting hand back on her shoulder. "Are you ready to work?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."


	6. Chapter 6

At 3:45 am, it wasn't especially easy for Dr. Greg Livingston to drag himself out of bed and down to CSI headquarters. However, he had been implored by his past colleague, Archie Kao. With barely any time to get ready, as Archie was insistent that he hurried, he had just enough time to grab a cold cup of coffee and a compact disc labelled 'GeoTechnix: Property of Dr. Greg Livingston'. In not even the blink of an eye, he was in the car and down the street, leaving the quiet neighbourhood in peace.

Archie met Dr. Livingston in the parking lot. He was about middle-aged, thin, but well-proportioned, and had a pleasant face. Aside from looking tired, he managed to look decently presentable, his hair parted neatly at the side, stubborn curls overhanging his brow.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Archie insisted to his old colleague. They had taken the same computing skills course years ago together. It was then that Dr. Livingston discussed with Archie his plans for an exciting new project that would prove relevant in a time of geographical uncertainties.

"I assure you that, given the circumstances, it is quite more than alright," Dr. Livingston replied.

The two men rushed into the building to meet Grissom, who was already eagerly seated in front of the large projection of the computer in Archie's department. He had with him photographs of the car wreck miniature, which he examined still, with ever as much intensity.

When Archie and the doctor stood in the doorway, Grissom turned to them and sat forward in his chair. Weary as he was, he decided not to stand up. Dr. Livingston, a polite and sympathetic soul, understood completely.

"This is Dr. Gregory Livingston, specialist in landscape geography and seismology," Archie said.

"Thank you for your help," Grissom said, a small tremor in his voice. In the back of his mind, he felt guilty for excluding the other members of his team but he knew they would make better progress working where they were not distracted by whatever strange unnerve he might be emitting. He had considered perhaps that they would be fine. He couldn't take the chance. He was going to lose his nerve. He trusted Archie, at least, to keep to himself and stay on task. He felt a mutual sense of respect of privacy with him. It was as though through watching people for hours on end, he imagined that Archie possessed an understanding of human behaviour that would not make his own seem strange. Or maybe he just couldn't face the others.

Dr. Livingston smiled wearily, clearly not completely understanding the magnitude of the situation.

Grissom said, "Please excuse my abruptness, doctor, but one of my CSI's is trapped underneath a car in the desert somewhere remote and we have absolutely no way of finding out where she is. Archie is certain you can help and time is everything."

He nodded, having already popped the CD into the drive, bringing up the revered program. As the doctor manipulated the machine, he spoke. "GeoTechnix has allowed me to develop a program that allows us to keep track of all changes to the make-up of the land in and around Las Vegas. As we are close to some threatening fault lines, it is key to our prevention of catastrophic geophysical disasters. This program was constructed based on very accurate topographical and tectonic observations I made on a four hundred mile radius. The images that you see are a three-dimensional reconstruction of both the city and the desert combined, including various detailed physical components such as rocks, trees, fences, rivers, and the like. Using precise measurements we can track shifts in these objects and determine various other geophysical factors for our company's cause."

Archie listened patiently. The program was now completely ready to use. Grissom was blank. "And ours?"

"Show me the picture," Dr. Livingston requested. Grissom handed them to him. He examined the photographs of the miniature and began to input some data into the program. "I can track down a number of locations based on the details constructed here such as the rock patterns, landscape height, and soil composition." He typed a few more inputs and several images appeared. The results were dispairingly unrevealing. Grissom looked on with intensity.

Seeming not pleased with the program's results, Dr. Livingston said, "I fear it may not be detailed enough. It seems as though your artist has used fairly standard materials that don't provide enough of the details I require to find an exact location. I have come across nearly five hundred hits, most of which are based on useless information."

Grissom's faced tensed, his lips pouting in frustration. He was fighting to maintain his placidity in this all too public situation. "The rock formations," he said. "You recorded all of them in the desert area surrounding the city?"

"Yes, but only their locations in relation to one another. This is not based on size or shape."

"I need another solution," Grissom muttered. He went to stand and leave, but the doctor spoke up.

"You might consider speaking with my son." Grissom looked irritated but intrigued. Dr. Livingston continued. "He has his own program that he has fabricated for his own purposes. Geocaching, he calls it. I think it has more search capabilities along the lines of what you require for your case."

_My case_, Grissom thought to himself. _This is not a case. This is Sara. This is my life. The lives of my team._

"OK," Grissom agreed. "But please hurry." The doctor and Archie both nodded.

He darted out of the room and down the hall.

"Grissom," Catherine said, suddenly appearing in front of him. "What can I do to help? What are you doing? I can do anything, but please, let me help."

Grissom considered her offer for a moment and then said decidedly, "Come with me."

"Where?"

"Hopefully to disprove the phrase 'like father, like son'."

She looked confused and then ran to catch up with him, as he was already making his way back to his office.


	7. Chapter 7

_The windows to the interrogation room were shut and the gray-blue walls were illuminated by a series of fluorescent lights. There was a faint hum being emitted by the air-conditioner, but all other sounds were blocked out by soundproof walls and glass. There was no one on the other side of the mirror._

_The large metal table had been pushed off to the side, leaving only a single chair and its occupant: Natalie Davis. She had been tied down, as she had previous lashed out at security after Grissom's departure from the room. She slouched forward, her hands roped tightly behind her back. Her hair hung down over her face, masking her delicate features. She seemed distant, and almost serene._

_Alone in the room, and seemingly unaware of any reason for it, she took time to look around. Blinds on each of the six windows, one hundred and twenty metal strips to each set. A large vista mirror, reflecting herself. Gray floor panels, fourteen by eight and a third. Grey walls, standard height. Four rows of fluorescent lighting. The door had a hooked knob that opened from the right. Above the knob, a small window shed light in from the hallway. The table was on the wall opposing the door. Her own chair, a match to the table, had four straight legs with black rubber floor protectors. A small panel for the back, suspended by four metal rods. Simple. _

_She was rocking gently in her seat when the door swung open and in walked Captain Jim Brass, pulling a cart, two shelved, its contents hidden from view. He smiled curtly at her as she looked up._

"I'm back, Natalie. I want to talk again." He was extremely polite, smiling all the while.

She stared at him blankly.

"Do you want to tell me where Sara is now?"

She continued to stare.

"OK, I get it. Still silent. And, you know, that's fine. OK. But, uh, Natalie, I have my ways. We can do this the easy way or the hard way." He was walking towards her.

She started to glare at him.

"_Look, I know you understand me perfectly. I don't see any reason for you not to comply. We have you. We can hold you. We have the evidence to hold you. Now let's give this up. Where is Sara?" His voice was gaining tension. "All right. I'm not buying this childhood trauma crap. You're a smart girl. A talented girl... But let me tell you I've had my share of grievances. And I'm a smart man too." He smiled, backing towards the cart. He bent over, reaching for a bucket and bottle. "I have my ways." He held up a bottle clearly labelled 'Bleach'. "Familiar?" She looked away. "No?" He raised his eyebrows and proceeded to unscrew the bottle. "You know, that's OK. I don't care if this has some sort of intrinsic meaning to you or not. I'm fine with that because, well, do you know what bleach does to the skin?" The cap was off now. "It burns it." He started towards her again, pouring the bleach into the bucket as he went. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way."_

Natalie was shaking furiously now. She shut her eyes tightly, muttering incoherent phrases to herself, which Brass could only assume was her nonsensical song again.

"Don't be a fool," he implored, now at her side and she unable to move. The bucket was tilted at forty-five degrees, suspended over her head. He shouted now. "Where. Is. Sara?" Natalie's mumbling grew louder. "Where. Is. Sara?" he shouted again.

"... I've got a pain in my side," she twittered.

"Tell me."

"... Something is wrong with..."

"Tell me, Natalie."

"I'm just as sick as can--"

Brass tossed to bucket of bleach onto the rambling girl and she let out a wild howl, which gradually transformed into Brass's own voice.

He sat straight up in his chair. He was in his office, drenched with sweat. He'd been sleeping at his computer. He slowly recalled the events of the night and he let out a tired sigh. He'd been dreaming. But the worst was yet to come. 

"Christ, Jim," he muttered, sifting through a pile of papers. Natalie's pseudonym. Brass glared. "Little bitch doll," he spoke bitterly. He leaned his head into his hand.

Suddenly, his phone rang. He jumped, and then stared at it for a second, and then answered.

It was Grissom, filling him in on the current state of the case.

It was going to be a long one.


	8. Chapter 8

Gil Grissom hung up his cell phone and exited CSI into the parking lot, the cool air bitterly refreshing on skin. Night wrapped him in an unsettling embrace of despair.

"Let me know everything and anything that goes on with regards to Sara, Jim," he had said sternly into the phone as he pulled on his jacket.

"Of course, you know I will," Brass had replied.

Catherine stood behind him moments later, swinging her purse over her shoulder and tucking her hair behind her ear. When Grissom didn't turn around, she merely stood with her head cocked to the side, her lips parted still half from shock and half from not knowing what to say to a man in his situation. A breeze broke the silence and whisked her hair back into her eyes. She shifted her stance, and then he turned around.

He stared, and then, "Where's Dr. Livingston?" His tone was neither hurried nor angered. It hid whatever emotion Catherine believed he should be feeling.

"He's just inside collecting his things." Her eyes surveyed him intently. "Gil, I... don't know what to say." He looked down, flinching noticeably. "We're..."

"You don't need to say anything." Silence. Then the wind. Grissom's eyes stayed downcast. Kisses of rain fell on them suddenly and the trees beyond the parking lot swayed with the gusts. A low, distant rumble of thunder beckoned on the darkened horizon.

When Grissom finally looked up, Catherine already had her arms wrapped tightly around him. Turned to stone, he lifted his boulder heavy arms and held her back.

Moments later, the doors to CSI swung open and a listless Dr. Livingston appeared on the step. "Ready?" Grissom and Catherine stepped apart, nodding. "Let's go."

* * *

The neighbourhood where the Livingstons resided was once again disrupted by the doctor's cars and Grissom's Tahoe hurtling down the drive. Once parked, their doors opened and shut almost instantly and the group went swiftly up the walk into the house. 

Met with the deafening silence of a household asleep, they carefully set their belongings by the door. The doctor's daughter and wife slept upstairs in their beds, blissfully unaware of the tragedy unfolding before the guests in their home.

They wasted no time in being mesmerized by the drips of any sinks or by the incessant ticking of the majestic grandfather clock that sat by the door. _Every second a second gone from Sara's waning life, _Grissom let himself think. He shook his head. It could not interfere. _Crushing weight. Blood oozing into the mud. Porcelain skin, a hand clawing, drowning in the mud. Sad brown eyes. Sara's eyes._ A hand on his arm awoke him from his vision.

"Grissom," Catherine spoke softly, but urgently. He shook his head once more, a wave of fatigue hitting him hard. He fought to stay focused, his skillful mind unwittingly distracted by a catalyst never before presented; love.

He had absently followed Dr. Livingston and Catherine into the basement of the house. An older teenager sat back in an office chair in a room off the main part of the elegantly furnished basement. He had his feet up on the desk beside a pile of crushed coke cans and a plate that was presumably dinner. Headphones blared as he surfed the internet with the keyboard on his lap, his hand deftly moving the mouse over the screen.

"James," Dr. Livingston commanded.

With unexpected obedience, James shut off his music player and sat up in the chair, turning toward the trio. He looked surprised.

"I'm glad you're still up," the doctor continued.

"I'm always up," James said flatly.

Grissom interrupted, stepping forward. "My name is Gil Grissom and this is Catherine Willows." She nodded in acknowledgment. "We're here from the Las Vegas crime lab. We have a situation and your father believes you can help us."

The boy looked instantly uncertain, at which point Catherine took a moment to explain the situation in its briefest entirety to him. James finally derived a look of confidence which filled Grissom with a grateful reassurance. Catherine handed James the photograph of the latest miniature, which James took and scanned with interest. His father looked at him with a hopeful expression. James nodded in response.

"I think I can map this," James said. Catherine and Grissom looked at each other, Grissom's face a blank slate. He shifted with a faint hint of impatience, though he tried to subdue it. Rain tumbled against the high window on the left wall. Thunder rumbled once more.

James pulled up the program on his computer and began to explain his intent. "I take part in a worldwide game called GeoCaching. Participants hide objects of various value in numerous locations that are outlined in a series of ways which require careful direction planning and following. Lists of different locations are presented in an online database which anyone can access. When someone finds an object successfully, they are at liberty of taking it and replacing it with something else. Rumor has it," he continued, entering various codes into the window, "that someone in and around Vegas has stowed a fantastic sum of money in one of the locations. As members are required to post what it is they find, and no one has yet listed anything of the sort, we can only assume that it has yet to be uncovered. There are fifteen-hundred and fifty-nine GeoCaching locations in the South of Nevada, and I intend to find the money."

Both Catherine and Grissom secretly doubted the existence of the money and they must have revealed it with their gazes as Dr. Livingston interjected, "James is an excellent student in school. This is strictly for amusement."

"And personal gain," James added unabashedly, indicating with his hand that they were ready to proceed. "Is this a copy?" he asked, in reference to the photograph. Catherine nodded. James took a black thick-tipped marker and circled key formations on the model photograph. He drew some excess lines to indicate calculations he seemed to be making in his head. He pulled up another window and began to enter his deductions.

Then he explained, "My advantage over others' is that I have painstakingly traveled with my father across Vegas and the surrounding desert area to create a program the details the intricacies of the land. Much like my father's, only less to do with his field and more to do with my own interests. I require to know exact formations that the GeoCaching directions pass over so that I may search all locations from this basement, at which point, if I am intrigued, I can go to wherever I choose and uncover the buried object." His fingers worked furiously over the keys as he spoke.

Finally, and rather quickly the investigators decided, James had deduced seventy-two possible locations for Sara's wreck.

Catherine's eyes widened in eager surprise. "Print those," she said. She turned to Dr. Livingston. "Can you be sure these are accurate?"

Dr. Livingston went to reply but James responded first. "I brought my project to school to enter into a national science competition. I ranked first in eighteen states. I have been offered money for the program as it is meticulously accurate and envied by several of the biggest geographical and landscaping companies in the United States. I refuse to accept the offers."

The doctor added, "He's passionate about the game, and his work. He's a smart boy."

Catherine and Grissom were satisfied with the credibility, but mostly occupied with the results appearing on the paper protruding from the nearby printer. James handed it to them and they turned to leave.

Grissom thanked the boy quickly, but sincerely, and then proceeded to make his way upstairs. Catherine ensued. Dr. Livingston met them at the door and waved them off. "Please let us know if there is anymore we can do."

As Grissom and Catherine got into the Tahoe, Grissom said, "We will."

Rain pattered hard on the windshield and the wipers made a discrete squeak as they wiped away the tiny rivers flowing down the glass. Catherine was reading off the results on the page as Grissom once again spoke to Brass over the phone, his other hand grasping the wheel.

"Send every officer you can spare to these locations, Jim. I need this."

A crackled, "Sure thing" came back over the line, followed by the click of phone closing. Grissom's blue eyes reflected a flicker of hope and anticipation that Catherine watched with childlike interest.

Grissom didn't even notice.


	9. Chapter 9

Nick Stokes and Greg Sanders strolled down the fourth floor hallway of Natalie's apartment building. An officer led them down to her door and let them in. As they stepped inside, setting down their equipment, a few more officers exited the room. They would be waiting outside.

When the door was closed, all that was left was the dark and musty apartment. Nick looked around. In main room beyond the entranceway, a workstation was set up donning various tools and material. It was messy and unkempt, but Nick assumed it must have been highly organized to someone, at least. He walked towards it slowly, cautiously.

Greg scanned the other facets of the apartment. Flashlight in hand, he scoured around corners, noting a small kitchen off to the left, a small, dank sitting room at the far end beyond the workstation, and a bedroom on the right, obscured by thick, heavy-looking curtains. The bathroom was near the main entrance, along with a closet. Two more closets were found in the kitchen and in the bedroom.

"I'm going to start in the kitchen," Greg said to Nick. "Work my way around."

"Sure thing," Nick said absent-mindedly, admiring the shelves and drawers of modeling tools that Natalie possessed. Now standing at the desk, he could see all the different materials she'd been collecting to make her miniatures. Small, intricate tools were laid out, as well a few more common ones. Scissors, markers, glue, and papers were scattered about. The felt she'd used kept in a bound book of colours of over six hundred sheets. Bits and pieces of string and straw suitable for hair, dirt, and other textures. A few blueprints of past models, but no photographs. Natalie didn't need photographs.

Nick shone his flashlight over the desktop and saw that the remnants of her most recent project had yet to be cleaned up. A hammer with red paint chips on the end lay haphazardly on the right. Bit of sand and grass-like strands were on the left. She had left some drawings nearby too. Seeing them made Nick scan up two side beams supporting the lighting for the workstation. His stomach flipped when he registered what he was seeing.

"Greg," Nick hissed. "C'mere." Greg came into the room, his light paving the way from the kitchen. Nick's light shone on some pictures that were attached to the metal beams.

"Is that..?" Greg asked.

"Sara," Nick confirmed. His eyes darted from one to the next. "And Grissom."

Greg's eyes grew dark and the corners of his mouth curled downwards into a frown. Nick's brow furrowed.

"Gotta continue," Nick said finally, after they stared at the sketched headshots.

The investigators continued to work, collecting whatever they could find that might have _some_ use. They both assumed it was of little use. Sara was already out there. What more could they find in this drab, dilapidated crime scene?

It was mostly to keep them busy. To be reassured that they were in fact doing the most that they could, the best way they knew how. The rest was up to fate.

A little over twenty minutes later, as Nick as searching through the front closet, Greg yelled to him from the bedroom around the corner.

"Nick," he shouted.

"Yeah," Nick said, pawing through the closet's disarray.

"You'll never guess what I found."

"What is it, man?"

"Well, I think we should call Grissom."


	10. Chapter 10

Gil Grissom leaned his back up against the wall in his office at CSI headquarters. His door was open a little bit and he could hear the anxious banter leaking into the hallways from the various sectors of the lab. The run-off of dozens of investigations mixed in with his own met and coalesced in the corridor, words fading in and out of cognition. His felt the onslaught of a migraine and gently pushed the door closed.

Brass would be there shortly.

He tilted his head back and swallowed with difficulty. His hands formed fists at his side. Inside his shoes, his toes curled with tension that rippled up his calves and dispersed into his thighs. His back was sore and knotted, his arms ached from fatigue. The pain in his head was only mildly consuming; the rest of his mind was fixed on the case, on Sara.

"Please hurry," Grissom whispered aloud, in a momentary outward display of his desperation. He closed his eyes tightly, his eyebrows furrowed as he sucked on his lower lip. He sank to the floor, resting his hand on his knee. He held his other one flat against his forehead.

_Sara_, he spoke in his mind, imagining her there. _In all the rage and in all the fury I've battled against, fighting not to fall for this, for you, I never imagined that a heart so pure as yours might find way to break the ice that kept my love for you frozen inside. I never knew this rock could tremble and be reduced to such fragile shards. Such are the ones I have become. In all my dreams, a hand could never feel so warm or so soft. No hand would ever reach for me, embrace me. Yours is an embrace like the canopy of a willow tree, all-consuming and far-reaching. _

_Not long ago, we seemed like strangers. All it would take is for us to jump, and when I jumped, you jumped. And we fell. No voice could be as sweet, no breath as sacred. No smile so close to heaven, no laugh so pleasing as to music. No eyes so full of understanding. No body so full of life, so alive. And Sara, spoken a thousand times over, would never lose its captivating ring in my ears, unbeknownst of the futility of words or names, or uttered sounds. _

_While I used to pray that I would learn you better each day, I pray now only for your next breath. Alive. Alive is all I can ask. _

A knock at the door roused him from his trance and the blue dim of his office met his eyes, now open. The shelves, the desk, the specimens, the light, and the torture, all as they were before his most brief escape.

He clambered to his feet and went to the door. It was Catherine and Warrick.

"Hey, boss," Warrick said, resting his shoulder on the doorframe.

Grissom could not help but looked troubled. The other two CSI's seemed equally distressed.

Catherine spoke. "Brass says he's dispatched a team of thirty-three search and rescue officers, as well as fourteen of his own men, to scour the locations outlined for us by James Livingston."

"Mhm," Grissom responded semi-absently.

Catherine looked empathetic, but disheartened. "Those locations could take anywhere between several hours to half a day to a day to sift through." Grissom's dismay was evident.

"We were thinking," Warrick said, "that speaking with Natalie again might lead us in the right direction. Maybe she'd identify an accomplice with the right persuasion. Surely she couldn't have dragged the car out to the desert on her own."

Grissom looked pensive. "I'm ahead of you guys on this one." They nodded, almost not surprised. Then he added more sternly, "I want you guys out there as well. Searching. I want every free body looking for her."

"For the scene," Warrick added, hoping to sound respectably objective.

Grissom noted this. "Yes."

Catherine touched his arm. "We _will _find her." She and Warrick turned and proceeded in the other direction, going to get the proper equipment and outerwear for the grueling search ahead of them. One way or another, they_ would _find her.

Suddenly Brass appeared, rushing from around the corner. "Did Catherine fill you in?" he asked. Grissom nodded. Brass started to walk. "Follow me, then," he said. "She's all ready for you."


	11. Chapter 11

"Tell me what you want," Grissom said decidedly, from across the table. He was in the interrogation room once again, seated across from Natalie Davis. She was blank, if not composed. "I need your help. I'm giving you a chance to make things right."

"She seemed... surprised, Mr. Grissom," she said, cocking her head side to side. "Pleasant. Like a girl before she trips and falls." Her lips seemed to devour the last few words. Her eyes were wide and full of false innocence. Grissom looked visibly distraught by her commentary. She noticed. "She didn't recognize me," she continued softly. "In a way, I hoped she would. I've seen her. She spoke to me once." Grissom scowled. "It was easy, though. To capture her." He stared hard at her eyes. "The needle went in so quickly. She was easy to move once she'd gone limp."

Grissom shuddered beneath his shirt and looked away. Thinking, he considered another way to talk to her. She was a delicate subject. And time was running out fast. So fast. He needed a clue.

"She was like a doll, wasn't she?" he asked. "Not very strong, I would imagine."

Natalie's eyes lit up. "Mhm."

"Soft."

She hoped to shatter him. "So soft. And smooth. Like porcelain. She barely put up a fight."

"Where do you keep your dolls, Natalie?" Grissom said gently.

"I have but a few, at home on the shelf. This one though..."

"Where..?" Grissom insisted.

"I put her in the truck."

He nodded. "Do you play with your friends?"

She shook her head. "No. You wouldn't play. You wouldn't have let me play."

"How did you play with such a big doll?" he asked, his insides twisting with every word.

"Dragged her. It was a shame to get her so dirty. Her pretty hair." She closed her eyes.

"How did you play your game all by yourself?" he inquired, staring intently at her face.

"She looked empty. Like the stare on a face after a deadly fall..."

"How did you play?"

"She tried to move. She couldn't. She couldn't."

Grissom's heart pounded. "How did you move the car?"

At once, she replied: "Physics," she said, as if having been shaken into consciousness. "Mr. Grissom. Like glue. Like bleach and blood. I have the tools to play my game. I always play alone. Alone."

"You are smart," he said, appeasing her. His hand squeezed his knee in frustration.

She almost smiled, seeming to forget him.

"Show me the hands that moved the car," he said, acting his enthrallment.

She held out her hands and showed him their backs and fronts. Something caught his eyes. Her palms were scratched and seemed to don the marks of a rope burn. He noted some slivers. Her eyes were closed again.

He stood, hating himself for what he was going to do. "Natalie," he said softly. "You're a good girl. Do you trust me?" She opened her eyes, adoring his attention. He walked towards her, taking her hands in his. She seemed to flush a bit. He pulled her to her feet.

"Mr. Grissom..." she whispered.

"The dolly needs to change her clothes," he said, sickened by himself. She raised her arms. He stared into her eyes. "What must she wear?"

"A pretty gown of silk and lace," she said, a childlike look of fascination on her face.

He put his hands on her hips, fumbling for the bottom of her shirt. She smiled, her hands up above her head. His heart beat terrible thuds in his chest. Sweat formed on his brow. His fingers were damp with anticipation. Slowly, he raised the material up over her stomach and her ribs, clean over her bra and up over her head. She stood there, her slim, girlish figure half-exposed to his darting eyes. She was pleased.

"She waits," she said, smiling slightly, her eyes downcast and unaware of him as he traveled around behind her, staring hard at her body.

Bruises. Tall. Cylindrical. Wood cuts. Slivers. Mud, not yet washed away.

_Rain is falling, pouring on them. Natalie is struggling in the mud, pulling hard on something. She slips, losing her grip and landing forcefully against something. A post, perhaps. She has a wild look in her eyes. _

_Sara, unconscious in the grit, water tapering in around her. _

_Rope burns on Natalie's hands. A truck. A tow truck. Placement. Elaborate pulleys. A dangerous struggle. A high place. Close to the road. Somehow, the car is placed._

_Sara crushed._

Natalie hummed softly to herself, goosebumps forming on her blue and black shoulders. She looks sore, but she doesn't seem to care. Grissom's breathing quickened.

"How did you do it?" he asked, losing a portion of his feigned composure.

Natalie looked at her hands, apparently understanding the situation. Her eyes were wide. She began to scream.

Grissom spun her around. "How did you do it?" he shouted into her face. She continued to scream.

Furious, but satisfied with his results, he exited the room, leaving her confused and distraught, and half-undressed. Brass was waiting for him outside.

"That was gutsy," Brass said. "Did you get what you were looking for?"

Before Grissom could answer, his cell phone rang. It was Nick.

"She used a car jack," Nick's voice rang out through the speaker. "It's here at her apartment. We found some blood on it. A small amount, and it's human."

"Good, Nick," Grissom said, his eagerness evident in his voice. He felt accomplished. They had a chance.

"Yeah, she couldn't have moved it very far. It's fairly heavy," Nick's voice continued. "The site must be close to the road."

"Thanks," Grissom said, ending the call. He dialed another number and Brass watched patiently, every so often peering in through the window behind him to check on Natalie. She had redressed and was rocking once again in her seat, her hands fumbling with one another.

"Yes, may I please speak to James?" he said with urgency. A pause. "James. This is Gil Grissom from the crime lab. Can you please narrow down the search for me?" Another pause. "Yes. Restrict it to locations with nearby trees, poles, or other high places, as well as fences, logs, or fallen trees. Yes. And close to the road." A final pause. Grissom's eyes lit up. "Thank you, James." He flipped the phone closed.

Brass looked at him questioningly.

"Recall your men, Jim," Grissom said. "Eleven locations, coming in by fax."

They tore off down the hall.


	12. Chapter 12

_The clock chimed a cheery ten o'clock and a smile crept across Sara Sidle's face. Lately in her life, she loved her days off, sleeping normal hours (and even a bit later), lazing about, catching up on some reading, and, of course, doing the puzzles in the newspaper. _

_She blinked her eyes a few times before sitting up in bed and turning to lean on her elbow. As she'd hoped, it was there on the table: a crisp, folded newspaper. She grinned, grabbing a nearby pen and flipping through the sections. She felt warm and happy as she started to scribble in the answers, her pillow stuffed under her side for support. She could smell coffee brewing, and heard the radio playing softly in the next room. The sun shone in through the window, reflecting the floating, falling particles hanging in the air. The clock continued to tick as birds sang blissfully outside. She hardly even heard the shower in the ensuite bathroom as, with a tiny squeak, the water stopped and the door swung open._

_She was half-done the puzzle when Grissom came into the bedroom, clad in a navy bathrobe, smelling of soap and spices. Lying away from him, she smiled inwardly, keeping to her paper and not turning around as he moved towards his side of the bed. They could hear the scratching of her pen. Grissom's own expression revealed content as he marveled at the woman in his bed. Some strands of her hair hung in her eyes and she habitually tucked them back behind her ear. The rest cascaded over her bare, slender shoulders. The blankets draped over her body created a soft, temporary mold of her frame, except for the single, smooth foot that protruded from the covers, its toes flexing from time to time. He paused to savour the scene._

_Finally, after several moments, he pulled back the covers on his side and slid into bed behind her. Her could hear her expel a breath through a grin as he curled up behind her, resting his hand on her hip and sliding his chin over her shoulder. _

_"Good morning, Sara," he said, in a raspy, singsong way._

_"Hey," she murmured back, leaning into him slightly as her hands continued to dance over the page. Her smile pervaded. _

_Grissom's blue eyes watched her intently. "It doesn't seem to take too much to make you happy," he chided playfully._

_"Very little is needed to make a happy life," she replied, pushing the paper and pen away from her and turning to him. _

_"Marcus Aurelius?" he inquired._

_"Mhm." _

_ He draped his hand over her stomach and she sighed. She stared into his eyes, and he stared back. Between them, they shared another one of their many perfected moments of silence where an exchange occurs that is more profound than that of mere words, and waves, like electromagnetism, are felt by their souls connecting. Against her shoulder, she could feel the tickle of Grissom's chest hair, protruding from his burly chest. She felt the strength in his arm as she touched it, squeezing his hand. His lips pouted into a soft smile. They seemed absolutely kissable. _

_He pulled her towards him and she felt a familiar excited sensation rush through her body. She closed her eyes, waiting for the release._

Suddenly, she felt the rain and wind on her face again, and the grit in her palms. She opened her eyes and saw the darkness again, the pleasant vision completely disapparated. She could see very little through the obscurity; a few plants, some rocks and pebbles in the sand. Flashes of lightning blinded her, racing through the rain towards her and thrashing her retinas. She winced and squinted again, the rain falling harder upon her still. She was cold and wet. And confused.

The numbness in her body did not distract from the pain in her lower back. Blood had pooled up to where she could see it, dark and diluted in the shadow. Her skin had wrinkled from the water, her fingers stiff from frigidity. She could feel the mud beneath her nails. Her other arm was somewhere on the other side of her, but she could hardly sense it at all. She kept her toes wiggling, a sensation she _could_ feel, if only slightly.

She'd begun to cough about an hour ago, and she fought to avoid the muck that had filtered in around her face. She could feel mucus and liquid in her throat, jolting with each rough heave of her chest. Her neck was tired and her oesophagus burned.

Recalling the vision, which wasn't the first, she cursed it for having ended. She cursed her situation. She cursed the rain. She'd started to curse the investigators for not knowing where she was. Mostly, she cursed herself. She felt so desperately close to the end. She wondered if this was one of those situations where you were supposed to hold on, where the strong ones survive and the weak give up.

_Is this life or death?_

She felt she was giving up. She didn't have a shred of strength left in her. She would become ones of the ones that didn't make it.

The weight. The crushing weight. Her breathing was so shallow. Her knees were plastered into the ground beneath the unbearable force of the wreck. Her ribs felt as though they'd caved in. She clambered her fingers into a fist as tears once again burned her eyes. She tried to sob, but she could only cough and splutter.

Exhausted and afraid, her eyes refused to stay open.


End file.
